La Ratita Presumida
“... y sentia muy feliz. Pero al terminar, el gato se lanzo sobre ella para comer se la. La Ratita lorgo escaper y aprendio a no fiarse de la aparencias”
Generally speaking, the most romantic matters take place beneath the moonlight. It shone down on the city of Barcelona that night with a certain intention, a mysterious plan. She went out for a cigarette, or a “thought” as she liked to think of it, her soul already marinating in a bottle of cheap, red wine. She let the moonlight pour its possibilities upon her skin as she exhaled into the night.
It was this recipe:
¾ bottle of red wine,
1 pack of Marlboro Lights,
a pinch of red lipstick and
a dash of moony-mist
on the dimly lit terrace that started it all.
Just then, a tall, blondish, smart looking guy walked into the room. She felt as though she could see the weight of his brain sitting in his head. Almost visible were the synapses firing within.
He spoke so smoothly, in a comforting, southern accent.
His words cast visions of sunsets,
surrounding her
in an unfamiliar, yet soothing
warmth.
She drew closer.
His southern spark lit her cigarette and
with that flick of the match,
an immediate magic ignited between them.
They spoke of Matthew Macconaughy, death and anxiety... death by anxiety, art and music and love and lust.
lovelustlovelustlovelustlostlove
“Just come with me,” he said, “I’m not expecting anything... we’ll get brunch!” , he said. Ooooooh that’s a mighty word there, “BRUNCH”.
“Brunch”,
A word capable of bringing this girl,
to her knees
~the birds and the bees~
she left with him.
...
“You had me at ‘brunch’.”
They took a cab to his shoebox-sized flat in Gracia, “the best neighbourhood of Barcelona by far”. They linked lips, caressed, clutched each other’s flesh and faded into one as the sun began to rise.
...
The sun came beating through the dungeon –like windows of the shoebox-shaped room. The laundry hanging outside-as it must in this city- cast shadows across their naked skin. It appeared to be dancing quite joyfully, despite the intensely hung-over state of the two strangers that lay entangled amongst the sheets.
As promised, BRUNCH ensued. They chatted, and laughed and flirted. They shared secrets that no one else knew.
“I like your brain”, he said.
...
In the weeks to come they spent every waking moment of each weekend in each other’s company. The rest of the time was spent as the charismatic protagonist in the day dreams of the other one’s mind.
Hospital General, Sant Cugat Del Valles, Valldoreix, La Floresta, Las Planes, Baixador de Vallvidrera, Peu del Funicular, Reina Elisenda, Sarria, Les Tres Torres, La Bonanova, Muntaner, Sant Gervasi, Gracia, Provenca, Passeig de Gracia, Placa Catalunya.
The Trains chugged on
And on
And just remember it’s hard to stop a train...
Gracia -the best neighbourhood in Barcelona- sang like a bird in her ear and a sore thumb pressing its weight into her aching heart.
Take me Spanish Caravan, yes I know you can...
...I know where treasure is waiting for me
Silver and gold in the mountains in Spain
I have to see you again and again.
Take me Spanish Caravan, yes I know you can.
...
That dreaded, dreary morning, the rain beat down. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plane -Or all over, really.
She helped him stuff his damp laundry
into his star-spangled suitcase,
himself into her...
He came,
she left, and so did he.
*I'd like to see you again
and again.
a short story.
a ghost story.
